


Lips Of An Angel

by lazy_cinder



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mutual Pining, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 23:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13728582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_cinder/pseuds/lazy_cinder
Summary: Negan has won the war, and Daryl can't sleep.





	Lips Of An Angel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xoPeapup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xoPeapup/gifts).



Twisted branches swayed in a rousing wind, the rising moon casting their spindly silhouettes onto the wall. Daryl watched the vein-like shadows jostle for his attention, annoyed that his body, heavy and tired, ached too much for him to sleep. He sighed deeply for the twentieth time that night, pressing his fingertips against his eyelids until swirling geometric patterns distracted his busy mind long enough for a moment of clarity to form. With the night calling to him, he couldn't sleep if he wanted to. 

He peeled the covers back with care, stiffly rising to his feet from the nest of bedding on the rug where his bed used to be. He avoided the creaky spots in the floor as he padded to where his clothes were draped over a chair, the only piece of furniture left in his barren attic room, dressed himself and quietly slipped his knife into his belt and his bow onto his back. He tried to open his pack quietly at first, feeling through it for the 2-way radio, and then he remembered again that his bed was empty, a fresh wave of anger and worry flooding through him. He loudly un-zipped the second compartment and grabbed what he was looking for, stuffing the bulky device securely to the inner pocket of his leather vest. 

He took the stairs as quietly as he could, because once more he had forgotten that the house was empty. Some of Judith's toys still lay strewn on the living room carpet, and he felt a pang of sadness realizing he would no longer come home from his watch to the Grimes family going about their morning. Maybe they would return someday, but for now Rick and Michonne stayed at Hilltop. They wanted to keep Judith safe, to help Maggie prepare for her baby, to help the residents provide for the Saviors, and, Daryl thought, because maybe they weren't ready to face the home they had shared with their son. 

It hadn't been easy for him to return, but it was harder to stay at Hilltop, where Maggie's loss haunted him daily. There were burned-out homes to demolish, lots that would become greenhouses and gardens, and he was far more comfortable keeping Carl's ghost company than bunking with Rosita and Tara or anyone else in the few Alexandrian homes that remained.

In the kitchen, the glowing green hands of the analog clock read 9:36. In the street, he could still smell the smoke from the burned homes and the funeral pyres of the walkers. There had been too many to bury. 

He studied his keys, considering his bike for a moment, but Paul had left his car, and that would be quieter. The tight silence inside of it bothered him, and the scent of the man who’d gone absent was stifling, fumbling with the ignition in a hurry to get the windows open. The guards opened the gates for him without question. 

He often took off for his hunts by night, camping out until the early morning, when prey were still active. He took the same backroads, toward the hills west of the Sanctuary, where the forest was thinned by wide clearings that had lain fallow for years.

It hadn’t been a week since Paul had asked to come along, and he’d refused. The next day he was gone. Rosita was the one who saw him off, said he’d gone off to scavenge, sourly insisting that any help would just slow him down and trip him up, and Rosita hadn’t been subtle in relaying that message. 

Daryl could admit he deserved it. He knew Paul would have been no trouble on a hunt, if that were all he had planned on doing. Slowing to a stop at the highest point of the road between two fields, he scanned the dark horizon. He saw only shadow where he knew the Sanctuary stood, the windows still blacked out nightly while the fence was repaired. The only lights he could see were further to the north; the flames of a defunct gas well, still burning years after the collapse, drawing the walker-stragglers like moths to be gathered by day, fleshing out the ranks of Negan’s horde. 

He switched the handset on to a low volume, still tuned to the patrol channel, listening for the familiar voices of Negan’s bomb squad managing the herd. They were regular with their check-ins, and soon the device crackled to life, announcing the time and coded checkpoint. They were far enough in their route that it would be safe for him to camp, so he drove past the broken gate, through the saplings and weeds, and parked at the crest of the hill. 

He pulled a sleeping bag and bottle of water from the back seat and climbed to the roof of the station wagon, settling on his back between the luggage rails to watch the stars. Breathing in deep, the cold air brought no relief. He counted the stars until the wind died down, felt the chill settle into his bones, but nothing slowed the sickening pounding in his chest and in his head, not with the radio still warm in his grasp.

 

On restless nights, chest tight and head throbbing, Negan hated the satin sheets. His wives found them comfortable and sensual, but wide awake he could only feel every wrinkle and fold beneath him, hating how the fabric peeled off his back as he turned onto his side to check the time on his watch before smoothing a palm over tired eyes. 

The slender body tangled in the bedding next to him breathed too peacefully to be stirred, immune to the quiet din of wind whistling over vents and night staff chatting two floors down. As if in answer to a prayer he hadn’t known he’d made, a soft click and the gentle hiss of white noise drew his attention back to the bed-side table. The status light on the radio atop it blinked idly. The sound, muffled within the drawer, lasted a few moments before cutting out abruptly. It was enough to set off a flurry of excitement somewhere in his chest, checking once more that his bedmate hadn’t stirred.

As quietly as possible, he slid the drawer open, and pulled out the second radio he kept inside. He rose from the mattress as carefully as he could, carrying the device to his private bathroom, setting it on the counter before rolling up a towel and stuffing it carefully along the crack beneath the door. Picking it up again and lowering the volume, he slid the window open for better reception, grateful that the cool wind had directed the stench of his walker-fence elsewhere. 

He leaned against the sill for a moment, scanning the yard for movement, and the distant hills for lights, thumbing the push-to-talk button in thought. Nothing else was out of place. 

 

Daryl blocked out the cruel, black, pin-pricked sky with hot, shaking hands clamped over hot eyes leaking horrible tears, holding his breath until he felt himself break into a cascade of short, shuddering gasps. He sniffed and sucked back a few deep sobs, the cold air drowning some of the pain that leaked out as one quiet whimper. Feeling like a lake of burning guilt and madness, shivering in silence, he wondered if it was possible to feel more broken. 

He reassured himself, because no one else could, that he was alone. That he was safe, that no one else could read his thoughts, that no one else was tuned to same frequency on the fifteenth channel of his secret radio, and no silly prayer of his would be any trouble to anyone. He was then stunned by the immediate rush of calm he felt when a dull hiss clicked to life beside him. He fumbled blindly for the radio, finding it where he left it on the smooth blanket beside his hip, and pulled it close to his chest, listening urgently for a voice or even a breath that might emerge from the chaotic silence. His breath halted, wishing for the wind to quiet, until a low voice spoke, clear as the moon and stars.

“It's late. Are you hurt?” The hiss of transmission cut out again, and Daryl felt his whole body relax as he let out a deep breath, the back of his head thumping against the hard steel beneath him. He sounded safe, and alive, and not very upset with him at all. Daryl swallowed, a trembling hand reluctantly fingering the button beneath it, and shook his head slowly, because he wasn’t hurt, but he couldn’t speak.

“Is everything ok?”

Negan’s voice spoke gently, and something inside hurt to know that he was concerned enough to respond. Without hesitation, he depressed the button, and released it a second later, afraid his own voice might break the spell. 

“I can't hear you. Say something. Over.”

He did his best to shake off the fear and took a sharp breath before he answered gruffly. 

“Yeah. M'okay.”

Negan could hear rushing air tickle the microphone, but the voice on the other end came in clear enough. He nudged the volume just slightly lower, rubbing his temples as he slumped against the wall. “You're gonna get me in trouble, boy.” 

“M’sorry.”

The mumbled reply came after a not-too-long pause, pleasing him more than anything. He felt a smile intruding, interfering with the sternness he needed to project. “What's this about, boy?”

The next pause made him impatient, so he added an “over,” as warning, and could barely make out the reply, but it sounded a lot like “wanted you,” forcing him to silence the excitement that roiled his belly until he could clarify.

“Didn't hear that. Say it louder.”

“Wanted to hear you.”

Negan was glad the man couldn’t hear the chuckle that forced its way out of him. He traced the smooth plastic over his lips, trying to trample the amusement out of his voice before he admonished the hunter, glancing once over his shoulder and lowering his voice as much as possible. “This channel is for reporting important matters. Did you have something else to tell me?”

He waited, hearing a silent transmission come and end, before it delivered a shy response. 

“No.” 

The weary smile he wore claimed his eyes as well. “No? Haven’t you been hunting for me?”

“Yeah.” He could hear a hint of pride, picturing the word breathed by fine lips that barely moved as they carved careful words, still as a cornered mouse.

“Did you catch something good for me?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s my puppy. Are you being good for me?” 

There was a very, very long pause, long enough for his body temperature to creep a little higher.

“No.” He heard a beard scrape against the microphone and breath hitch before the sound cut away again, stirring a primal curiosity in him.

“No? Are you being naughty?” He had to laugh to himself, shaking his head as he waited, tongue smugly tracing white teeth.

“Hyea.” The desperation behind the gasped word was unmistakable, and Negan felt a flush creeping all the way up his neck to his ears. He let his forehead rest on the sill, letting the silence linger, replaying the sound in his mind a dozen times, his free hand trembling as it fumbled its way with alarming urgency into form-fitting black boxers and squeezed the half-erection trapped there. He released a shuddering sigh of relief, working himself free and building up a smooth rhythm, picturing a soft beard framing fine lips and a soft, pink tongue. He swallowed heavily, pulling the radio close.

“Miss your pretty mouth, boy.”

He barely caught the hiss that rose above the static.

“Say it again.”

“S’yours.”

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in staggered gasps, the smooth plastic salty from his handling, firm against an intrepid tongue. He felt his insides clamping down against the emptiness inside, his hardened genitals throbbing in a crushing grip that had frozen on edge. He moved his hand downward, massaging his balls loose and rubbing the firm skin beneath them, lost in memories of strong hands gripping his hair, of gently-growled curses in the darkness of a concrete cell, the taste and smell of sweat and skin as a hard cock throbbed and came, tightly wedged inside his throat. He pursed his lips, held his breath and slowly rolled his hips, tension thrumming through his core as the silence hung over him. 

_Say it_ , he thought, seeing the dark gleam in stark eyes in his mind, daring him to speak falsely and submit.

The silence clicked in and out once more, carrying no words .

Daryl gasped a brief curse and let the radio slide off his shoulder to lay in the cold beside him, the coolness of his other hand shocking at first before he squeezed and kneaded himself back to a blissful plateau. 

_Say it._

“Daryl,” the speaker growled against his ear, coarse and needy.

The muscles of his torso jerked as he suppressed a whimper, cum spilling all over his hand and stomach, hips twitching and lips parting in grief and awe as his climax continued in several wracking waves, causing a hot pool to overflow and drip from his belly-button into his opened shirt. He rode it out to thoughts of a claiming tongue framed by rough stubble, chasing his breath, cursing and fumbling for the radio with his clean hand. He held down the transmission button, not sure how else to express his bliss aside from a stretch of wordless panting, followed by a cautious “yes.” 

 

Negan didn’t respond for a few minutes, spent, his mind blissfully empty. He yanked a towel from the rack to wipe down his shaking hand before he spoke again.

“One of my men spotted boars on the northern bank. Be careful.” 

“Yes.”

Negan smirked, waiting for the correction to come until Daryl dutifully repeated himself.

“Yes sir.”

“Good boy. Goodnight.” 

The timid “night” came swiftly, and felt final, but it took Negan another twenty minutes to be sure that was all, to clean the evidence from the wall and floor and for his racing heart to still enough to hear above it. 

Nothing had changed when he padded quietly back to his bed, except that his absence left the sheets cool and dry, and a comfortable fog of slumber enveloped him as soon as he pulled the sleeping man into his arms. He tucked long, mousy hair behind a delicate ear, placing a firm kiss to a bearded jaw when the man inhaled and shifted on the soft mattress, pressing a warm, slender back against his strong chest with a contented hum. 

"Sleep," was whispered, and Negan sighed and did just that.

**Author's Note:**

> because he requested a neryl one-shot based on [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RiSfTyrvJlg) and deserves so much better.


End file.
